


standing on pins and needles

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e19 The Only Light in the Darkness, F/M, Season/Series 01, Ward x Simmons Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma has never been any good at hiding what she’s thinking.</p>
<p>[For the <b>Sense</b> theme at Ward x Simmons Winter.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	standing on pins and needles

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this fic since OCTOBER and it is such a relief to have it finished. Thank goodness.
> 
> For the **Sense** theme at Ward x Simmons Winter. Thanks for reading! If you like it, please review!

Ward is HYDRA.

_Ward_ is _HYDRA_.

And Jemma can’t say a word about it.

Not here, at least. Not now.  He’s far too great a threat.

It kills her to keep silent, to let him tug on her team’s heartstrings with his complete falsehood about the fall of the Fridge, but it’s really the only option. The only thing—the best thing—she can do is leave it be. All she’ll accomplish by exposing him now, with everyone gathered in such cramped quarters, is getting one of her team hurt—or worse, killed.

So she’ll let him finish his lie (one of what must be _thousands_ he’s told them, the bloody traitor), let the team disperse, and then tell Coulson in private.

There’s just one problem: Jemma has never been any good at hiding what she’s thinking.

Her eyes happen to meet Ward’s as she finishes cleaning the blood away from his cheek, and she must give something away. Perhaps he can see her pulse beating in her neck (her heart is hammering against her ribs, a painful rhythm of betrayal and fury and terror), or perhaps her racing thoughts (he’s a traitor, how is he a traitor, this is _Ward_ , Ward who’s saved all their lives a dozen times, who sat up with her at night when dreams of falling scared her away from sleep) show themselves on her face.

Whatever it is he picks up on, it causes his brow to furrow. Then his eyes widen, and she knows _he_ knows that she’s figured him out.

Time slows down. She stumbles back, opening her mouth to say something—anything—to warn the others, but if she’s in slow motion, Ward has obtained super-speed. One hand clamps down around her wrist as the other snatches his ICER off of the lab table beside him, and quick as a blink, he’s shot May (just as quick as he is, she already has her own ICER halfway out of its holster) in the chest.

The others startle, but they’re too slow—they’re all too slow—and Trip goes down while he’s still reaching for a weapon.

“Ward!” someone—she thinks Coulson—shouts, but they’re _all_ shouting and it’s impossible to make anything else out past the roaring in her ears.

Ward yanks hard on Jemma’s wrist, pulling and twisting her as he stands, and somehow—she’s not sure how, not now that the world has sped back up and his moves are impossible to follow—she finds herself trapped, back against his chest with his arm around her waist and a scalpel at her neck.

Coulson, Fitz, and Skye freeze. The ensuing silence is very, very loud.

Jemma is more than frozen, she’s _paralyzed_ by terror. For the first time in her life, she wishes she knew _less_ —wishes she hadn’t studied anatomy extensively and weren’t aware precisely how long it will take her to bleed out if Ward follows through on the threat implied by the placement of the scalpel.

“That’s better,” Ward says. His heart is racing—she can _feel_ it racing—but his voice is perfectly even, if a touch breathless. “Everyone stay nice and calm.”

“Ward, what the _fuck_ —” Skye starts, only to silence herself at a look from Coulson.

“So you’re HYDRA,” he says coolly—quite in contrast to the white-knuckled grip he’s maintained on his lowered ICER.

“Yep.” It’s said so easily, so casually, that if Jemma could move, she might well stomp on his foot. How can he be so—so _unconcerned_? He’s a bloody _traitor_. He should at the very least _apologize_. “Though I gotta say, things have taken an unexpected turn. Really wasn’t counting on getting made this soon.”

Jemma holds her breath as the scalpel presses a little harder into the skin of her throat—not so much as to cut, but certainly enough to be felt—and Fitz jerks forward.

“Ah,” Ward says, warningly, and she can’t help a whimper as he scrapes the scalpel along her skin. Fitz stiffens. “Everyone stay nice and still, okay? No one has to get hurt.”

“No one _else_ , you mean,” Skye says fiercely. “You killed Hand, didn’t you?”

“Well…” Ward’s low chuckle rumbles through Jemma, turning her stomach. “Yeah. That’s true. But she got in my way, and I know you’re all smarter than to do _that_.”

Fitz is still frozen, hands curled around the edge of the holotable behind him, but Ward’s words seem to spark something in him. They’ve often been accused of being able to read one another’s minds, and even though it’s ridiculous, Jemma does her best to send _don’t_ thoughts his way.

She doesn’t want to believe Ward is capable of harming them—of harming _Fitz_ , who has been nothing but a friend to him, who is a good, brave man that doesn’t deserve to suffer any evil at all.

But she didn’t want to believe Ward was HYDRA, either.

“Let Simmons go, Ward,” Fitz orders. “You don’t want to do this.”

It’s not a threat, it’s a plea, and it only makes Ward laugh again.

“Don’t worry, Fitz,” he says. “I have no intention of hurting Simmons.” His fingers curl over her hip, and she suppresses a shudder. “I do have some questions for her, though.”

Jemma doesn’t dare speak, not with the scalpel still so close to her neck, but that’s all right. Coulson asks her question for her.

“Like what?”

“Like how she knew,” Ward says, and the curve of his smile against her temple makes her heart skip a beat. “Simmons?”

He pulls the scalpel away from her neck—not far enough that he won’t be able to slit her throat in a fraction of a second, but far enough that she can speak—and she drags in a shuddering breath.

“Well?” he prompts.

“I—” she clears her throat, hoping to ease the tightness in it. “I checked you over before you left the Hub.”

“I remember,” he says, impatiently. “And?”

“And it gave me a basis for comparison here. The cuts on your face have reopened,” she says, “but your split knuckles are healing nicely. You haven’t any new defensive wounds—or even _offensive_. It’s as though you—you simply stood still and let someone hit you.” She drags in another breath, lightheaded from a lack of oxygen that she _knows_ is only her imagination. “It doesn’t fit with your story. I drew the obvious conclusion.”

Ward laughs humorlessly. “Well, doesn’t that just figure.” His fingers dig into her hip. “Anyone ever tell you you’re too smart for your own good, Simmons?”

“Yes,” she admits, mouth dry. “Frequently.”

“I bet.” He sighs, clearly aggravated. “Fucking typical. Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is for someone with my training not to fight back when someone hits me? And all for nothing.”

“Yeah, poor you,” Skye snaps. “Simmons answered your question, now let her go already!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Ward says. He moves the scalpel over her skin, almost _caressing_ the column of her throat with the blade, and tears sting at Jemma’s eyes. She bites down hard on her lip, determined not to voice any of the pleas that have sprung to mind. “See, Simmons might’ve blown my cover, but that doesn’t change the fact that I came here for a reason.”

“What reason?” Fitz asks, eyes locked on the scalpel. Jemma thinks he might be shaking even harder than she is.

“The hard drive,” Ward says, aiming the words at Skye. “It’s encrypted, and I need it _de_ crypted. Now.”

Skye goes pale—paler than she’s been since she was bleeding out in Coulson’s arms—and Jemma’s heart clenches.

She wants to tell Skye not to decrypt the hard drive. She was filled in on its existence earlier, when Fitz explained the need to rebuild the Bus’ systems, and she knows there’s too much intelligence on that drive to allow it to fall into HYDRA’s hands. The honorable thing—the _right_ thing—to do is to order Skye to refuse, no matter what Ward threatens.

But the scalpel is still dragging slowly over her skin, and she’s terrified. She doesn’t want to die.

She hasn’t the courage to do the honorable thing.

Skye slowly shakes her head, her wide, horrified eyes fixed on Jemma’s. Jemma tries to comfort herself with the fact that, if she’s not brave enough to order Skye to refuse, she’s at least not enough of a coward to beg her to cooperate.

It doesn’t help much.

“ _Now_ , Skye,” Ward snaps.

“I can’t,” Skye says, voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” Ward says impatiently, “you can.” The scalpel comes to a stop over Jemma’s jugular, and she squeezes her eyes shut, unable to bear the looks on her team’s faces. “Or you can watch me slit Simmons’ throat. She’ll be dead in seconds, and unless one of you’s got a vial of GH-325 in your pocket, she’s gonna _stay_ dead.”

“No—I—”

“It’s okay, Skye,” Coulson says, voice tight. “Go ahead and unlock it.”

“You don’t understand,” Skye insists, and Jemma isn’t surprised, upon opening her eyes, to find her crying. “The encryption is location-based. I can’t decrypt it here.”

For precisely twenty-three heartbeats (Jemma counts), Ward is silent. Fitz is still gripping the holotable, but Jemma can see his eyes darting around the lab, his clever mind racing to put together a solution to her predicament.

Coulson looks—he looks _old_ , weighed down by everything that’s happened…and perhaps even anticipatory grief. She wonders if he’s already given up on saving her.

“Well,” Ward says, “fuck. That changes things.”

He releases his hold on her hip, and Jemma hates herself—hates herself _so much_ —for the heat that curls through her as his hand skims up her torso. She’s been nursing a mortifying crush on him for months, and it horrifies her that her attraction is just as strong now as it was this morning.

She’s dreamt of being held by him, of his voice low and intimate in her ear, but not like _this_. Not with a blade at her neck and her life under threat—not with his hands stained with the blood of God only _knows_ how many SHIELD agents.

What is _wrong_ with her?

The scalpel falls away, interrupting her self-recrimination, but she has no time for relief—it’s almost instantly replaced by Ward’s other hand wrapping tightly around her throat, and her lungs seize with panic.

She scrabbles at his hand—at his wrist—trying to force him to let go, but she’s still wearing the gloves she put on to treat him, and her nails can’t pierce through the strong latex. It’s useless.

Skye is saying something—pleading—but Ward ignores her in favor of kissing Jemma’s temple.

“Shh,” he says, free hand (what happened to the scalpel?) catching both of hers. “I’m not gonna kill you, Simmons. If that hard drive’s useless here, you just became my most valuable asset.”

_That_ does nothing to ease her panic.

Neither does the sudden step forward Fitz takes. “No, that’s—there’s just as much of _my_ research on that drive as there is hers. It’s me you want, not Simmons.”

“ _Fitz_ ,” Jemma croaks, horrified, “no—”

But Ward is laughing.

“You’re a brave guy, Fitz,” he says. “I admire that. But yours isn’t the research I’m interested in, so…” He shrugs. “Simmons is the one I need. The rest of you—” he pauses significantly, and Coulson’s eyes narrow “—are just in my way.”

Jemma is instantly reminded of his words about Hand—and she must not be the only one.

Fitz and Skye both spring into motion at once, Skye scrambling to grab the ICER off of Trip’s belt and Fitz sprinting towards his workstation on the other side of the lab. Ward releases Jemma’s hands in order to snatch his own ICER up off the table, but the scalpel he so recently held against her neck is within her reach; before she can second guess herself, she grabs it and, as his ICER swings towards Fitz (he knows them all, knows enough to understand that Fitz in a lab is a far greater threat than Skye with an ICER), stabs blindly back—

—he swears, hand clamping around her throat, and she _can’t breathe_ —

—she rips the scalpel back out to stab again, but it tumbles from her clumsy fingers—

—she’s wounded him, just not enough, and he fires—

—but even as Fitz falls, Coulson brings his own ICER up to shoot—

—to shoot—

— _Skye_.

…What?

No.

_No_. It can’t be.

But it is. Skye falls, and Coulson tucks his ICER away with a sad shake of his head.

Jemma’s lungs are burning, her vision going black at the edges, and she welcomes the prospect of unconsciousness—maybe things will make _sense_ when she wakes up, if she ever wakes up at all—but Ward’s grip finally slackens, and survival overrules betrayal. She rips herself away from him, sucking in great, gasping gulps of sweet oxygen as she goes, and stumbles over Trip’s prone form (which isn’t at all funny).

As she catches herself against the holotable, Coulson aims a chiding frown at Ward.

“No new defensive or offensive wounds?” he asks, using the same scolding tone that improper use of potholders has always provoked. Jemma’s blood runs cold. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ward says. “Take it up with John.”

“Believe me,” Coulson says grimly. “I will.”

This _can’t be happening_. Ward being HYDRA is a terrible, horrible, Earth-shaking betrayal. After everything they’ve been through, it’s unbearable.

But _Coulson_?

How can Captain America’s biggest fan be HYDRA?

It’s not possible. It’s just _not_.

Yet there he is, passing Ward the ICER Skye only barely managed to grab. He stays crouched next to her for a moment, smoothing her hair away from her face and murmuring something too quietly for Jemma to hear, but once he’s done, he straightens and walks away from Skye like it’s nothing—like _she’s_ nothing.

“Great,” Ward says. He snags a hand towel from one of the tables and presses it into his bleeding side with a slight wince.

Jemma hopes, with a freezing sort of spite she’s never felt before, that he bleeds out.

Unfortunately, it’s not likely; that was a very small scalpel, and from the looks of it she didn’t manage to hit anything vital. Drat.

“So, who’s gonna haul these four outta here before we take off?”

Coulson opens his mouth, then pauses and gives Ward an odd look. “Is there a reason it wouldn’t be you?”

“Well, yeah.” Ward aims a mocking smile Jemma’s way. “Two cracked ribs, remember? My doctor told me to take it easy. I don’t think dragging unconscious teammates around qualifies as rest—though neither does getting stabbed, for that matter.”

“Fair enough,” Coulson allows, straightening from where he’s crouched to check on Fitz. “But we won’t be taking off—at least not in the Bus.”

“Oookay,” Ward says. “Why not?”

As Coulson explains the damage to the fuel line, Jemma considers her options.

From the sound of it, Ward intends to take her—well, somewhere. To HYDRA, presumably. But the Bus isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and the effects of the dendrotoxin rounds will wear off eventually. She could make a run for it, lock herself in a storage pod and wait for the others to wake up.

Except her knees are still weak, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to stand, let alone run, without the holotable’s support. And in any case, there’s no guarantee the others _will_ be waking up. They’ve been left alive so far, but she suspects they’ll be under threat the moment she becomes uncooperative.

She rubs at her throat with a shiver, remembering the horrible struggle to breathe. She was utterly helpless, and she’s aware now in a way she’s never been before of just how _fragile_ she is—how easy it would be for a man of Ward’s strength and training to break her.

Ward curses, pacing away from Coulson in frustration. He’s not even looking at her, but Jemma finds herself pressing back into the holotable nonetheless. In the process of doing so, she manages to tread on May’s fingers.

She cringes and glances down, a reflexive apology to the unconscious May on her lips…an apology that dies unspoken as her eyes fall on May’s ICER, lying a scant foot away from the holotable.

“What about the plane you flew in on?” Coulson asks. “Is it operational?”

“Yeah,” Ward says, turning back. “But it needs fueling, and it’s a good hike away from here.”

If she can pick the ICER up without drawing their attention…

“Providence has fuel reserves,” Coulson says. “Bring it here, fuel it up, fly it out…shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Maybe.” Ward rubs a hand over his stubble, tossing down the towel. The wound she inflicted is still bleeding sluggishly, but it’s not large enough to require stitches. It seems the most she can hope for is that it develops an infection. “What about this Koenig guy? He gonna be a problem?”

She has no chance of taking them both out. But Ward has his back to her and Coulson, with his ICER holstered, is not nearly so great a threat as a specialist. Does she dare risk it?

Does she dare _not_?

Trying to appear casual, she busies herself with stripping off her gloves. As she does so, she examines the scene from under her eyelashes, judging the relative distances. Her ponytail holder broke somewhere in the fray, and if she has any luck at all, the way her hair is hanging in her face will disguise her interest.

Of course, if she had any luck at all, she wouldn’t be in this mess, would she?

For the moment, however, things are playing in her favor. Ward still has his back to her, and though Coulson is facing her, his attention is on Ward. As long as they remain distracted…

“He’s a Communications agent,” Coulson is saying and, heart in her throat, she steps on the ICER and—carefully, slowly—slides it closer.

It’s risky. But whatever Ward wants her for, it can’t be good, and as things stand, he has four people to use as hostages against her. She’d like to believe she’s stronger than to buckle under HYDRA’s threats, but…

The ICER is well within her reach, now, and her window of opportunity might close at any moment.

If she’s going to try, it has to be now.

Weak-kneed and trembling from terror, she braces herself against the holotable with one hand and drags in a slow, deep breath. Ward is still facing Coulson. Coulson is describing Koenig’s thoughtless trust of him.

She leans down, snatches the ICER from the floor, and brings it up to bear immediately. It’s a fraction of a second’s work to center it on Ward’s back, and she squeezes the trigger twice even as Coulson’s eyes snap to her and widen.

For a second, she thinks—but Ward ducks and twists and the ICER rounds miss him entirely, continuing on to splatter harmlessly against one of the windows.

Bugger.

“Really?” Coulson asks, in a tone that brings to mind countless hours of debate over her advanced vocabulary and the legality of handicaps in Scrabble.

Tears blur her vision, but she doesn’t dare wipe them away.

“Simmons,” Ward sighs. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she asks. Her trembling has worsened, and it’s an effort to hold the ICER steady as she aims it at him once more. “I’m stopping you.”

Coulson raises his own ICER, though he doesn’t point it at her. “Do you really think that’s the best idea?”

“It’s a better idea than doing nothing,” she says, eyes darting from him to Ward and back.

They’re far enough apart that she can’t watch them both at once, and she’s torn over who to focus on. Ward is undoubtedly the greater threat, but Coulson is armed. If she shoots Ward—assuming she can even _hit_ him; how did he dodge so well when his _back was turned_?—Coulson will undoubtedly shoot _her_ before she can turn her ICER on him.

But if she shoots Coulson, there’s no question Ward will have her disarmed before Coulson even hits the floor.

She doesn’t know what to do.

She dithers too long.

Her gaze has no sooner settled on Coulson (who’s opened his mouth to speak again) than a flicker of movement from Ward catches her eye. Pain—hot and sharp—flares in her knuckles as something clatters to the floor, and she spoils her aim when she jerks her hand back reflexively.

Before she can recover, Ward is there, twisting the ICER out of her grip and putting no little strain on her wrist in the process. Desperation might have driven her to grapple for it, but she doesn’t have the chance; he pitches it over her head, and if the muted _clang_ that follows is any indication, it sails right out the door and into the corridor behind the lab.

“Nice try,” he says, with a smirk she’d dearly love to slap off of his face.

She’s distracted, though, by the pain in her knuckles. It’s dulled to an unpleasant stinging, the source of which she discovers to be a thin line of blood along the back of her hand.

“What—?”

“Scalpel,” Ward supplies, nodding to the floor, and sure enough, only inches from May’s hair is one of her scalpels. He kicks it, sending it skidding back towards the cargo hold, and then catches and lifts her wrist. “Little bigger than the one you stabbed me with, but no less sharp. And weirdly well-balanced for throwing; does that come standard?”

He _threw_ a _scalpel_ at her? Really?

This day has been, at turns, both absurd and terrible. She has the sinking suspicion that it’s only going to get worse.

She hisses in a breath as Ward rubs his thumb over the back of her hand, increasing the stinging and smearing the blood in one quick swipe. It’s painful, but considering the distance from which he threw the scalpel and the velocity with which it must have traveled, the cut is remarkably shallow. It will inconvenience her, she’s sure, but no real damage has been done.

Other than to her spirit—and to her hopes of escape, which have been effectively shattered.

“You’re looking pale, Simmons,” Ward says, and tugs her forcefully away from the holotable. Still weak-kneed, she stumbles, and he steadies her with a _tsk_. “Why don’t you come sit down?”

She’s helpless to do anything but follow as he leads her across the lab. His hand is warm in hers, and her shock-chilled skin urges her to lean into him. She resists, naturally, but the temptation is, horribly, there.

He’s still shirtless.

“Here,” Coulson says, and pulls a chair away from her workstation with a kind smile. Her failed attempt to subdue them, it seems, has already been forgiven. “Sit down, Simmons.”

She does so numbly; once she’s seated, Ward lets go of her hand, but he doesn’t give her any space.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, brushing his fingers against her temple. She cringes away, and he catches her jaw, holding her still as he studies her face. “You had to know you couldn’t take us out, but you tried anyway. What’s going on up there?”

She considers keeping silent out of spite, but the fact is, she wants too badly to know—to _understand_ —to hold her tongue.

“How can you be HYDRA?” she asks, voice hoarse around the ache in her throat. Whether that ache is born of emotion or developing bruises, she couldn’t say. “How can _both_ of you be HYDRA?”

Ward smiles, a little, and releases her jaw. “I was recruited as a teenager, so…pretty easily, actually.”

He moves to prop his hip against the table next to her, making room for Coulson to take her hands in his.

“Jemma,” he says, and her heart twinges.

He hasn’t called her by her first name since the incident with the Chitauri virus, and hearing it now—remembering his concern that day, his refusal to accept the death sentence she was under, his _fury_ at the way she risked her life jumping from the Bus—hearing it now, when he’s betrayed their team…

“I don’t understand,” she whispers, fighting back tears. “I don’t—how can you be HYDRA?”

“Jemma,” he repeats, and squeezes her hands. “You read that transcript. You know what they did to me.” His face is grave. “I begged to die— _begged_ —while SHIELD used an experimental procedure on me to resurrect me _against my will_.”

She swallows painfully, recalling the way her stomach turned to read that transcript—page after page of Coulson’s pleas.

“What they did to you was wrong,” she says. “I’m not disputing that. But _HYDRA_ …?”

“Fury used me as a _test subject_ ,” he stresses. “And then he changed my memory.”

It’s a compelling point. Coulson’s memory wasn’t only erased, it was _replaced_. His mind was—was rewritten, as carelessly as if it were a poorly worded email. The very thought of violating someone that way sickened Jemma when she first read the report, and it sickens her now.

But it doesn’t justify joining HYDRA.

“And you don’t think HYDRA has done worse?” she demands. “Sir, you are working for actual, literal _Nazis_. They are the _last_ people—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Simmons,” Ward says, patting her shoulder. “You’re not gonna sway us with rhetoric; all you’re doing is wasting time.”

“He’s right,” Coulson agrees. He squeezes her hands once more, then drops them and steps back. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to see HYDRA’s truth for yourself.”

Well. That’s certainly ominous, isn’t it?

Chilled just as much by the words as by the sudden distance Coulson has put between them (a traitor he may be, but he’s still—he and Ward are _both_ still—family), she hugs herself. She’s never felt as small as she does now, with two of the people she trusts—trusted—most in the world looming over her and the other three unconscious on the floor.

(Plus Trip. She mustn’t forget Trip. New to the team he may be, but he’s clearly more trustworthy than Coulson and Ward _combined_.)

“Yes, she will.” Ward’s smile is sharp enough to wound. Jemma thinks longingly of her surgical instruments, all of which are far out of her reach. She didn’t do much damage with the scalpel—nor did he, for that matter—but perhaps an even larger one… “In the meantime, sir, what were you saying about Koenig?”

“He’s a Communications agent,” Coulson says. “And he trusted me on sight. He’s not a threat—not to me, at least.” _His_ smile, in contrast, is the same as always. “You’ll notice I’m the only one with a lanyard; everyone else has to earn them.”

“Right,” Ward says, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Jemma looks away. “You think you can convince him most of our team is HYDRA?”

“Easily,” is Coulson’s somewhat wry response.

“Okay, then, how about this,” Ward says, even as he pushes away from the table. Jemma keeps her eyes on her knees, rather than watch him move about her lab like he owns it. “You tell Koenig these four are HYDRA and need to be locked in the Cage until we have time for interrogation. While he’s moving them, you go get the jump jet and bring it back so he can fuel it.”

Jemma startles as her first aid kit lands heavily on the table next to her. Ward gives her a pleasant smile.

“In the meantime, Simmons is gonna finish patching me up—since that is, after all, her job.”

The _nerve_ of him!

“I don’t work for HYDRA,” she tells him, sharply, and turns away. It’s easier to look at the lowered cargo ramp and the empty hangar beyond—the imagined safety of Providence, just out of her reach—than at him…or even Coulson, standing by and watching with a patient smile.

Ward laughs, swiveling her to face him again with a hand on the back of her chair.

“You will,” he promises. “And until then, I think it’s better for everyone if you have something to do while Koenig’s here.”

Something cold curls in her stomach at his tone. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles down at her. It would be kind, if not for the mocking edge. “After all, you’re such a bad liar…it’d be a shame if you gave something away.”

His speaking glance towards their— _her_ —unconscious teammates punctuates the statement quite effectively. They’re even more helpless than she is right now, and while Koenig seems a competent enough Communications agent, she highly doubts he’s capable of defending himself against any specialist at all, let alone one of Ward’s caliber.

HYDRA apparently needs Jemma, which means she’s safe—for a certain value of the word. None of the others have any such protection. If Coulson and Ward are willing to leave them alive, she needs to do everything she can to encourage it.

“It would be,” Coulson agrees, pinning her with a stern look. “Are you going to behave?”

She nods mutely, unable to trust her voice. Coulson risked everything for the sake of saving Skye’s life less than two months ago; to witness him threatening it now—however implicitly—brings home how _wrong_ everything has gone.

“Good,” he says, stern look melting into a fond smile. “Now, why don’t you clean that up—” he nods to her blood-smeared hand “—while Ward and I iron out our plan? Then you can take care of him.”

Hope sparks briefly in her chest—there are several sharp implements in her first aid kit; if she can only pocket one, she’ll at least be armed, however poorly—but it dies just as quickly. Ward is standing right above her, leaning one hip against the table, and there’s no way she can take anything from the kit without him noticing.

And what good would a pair of scissors do against a specialist like Ward, anyhow? There’s no point in trying.

Coulson is watching her expectantly.

“Fine,” she says, and reaches for the kit.

Ward, it seems, is determined to ensure she can’t forget his presence—that or he simply feels the need to taunt her. Whatever his reasons, as she digs the disinfectant out of her kit, his hand falls to her hair, and he cards his fingers through it while she cleans her cut.

It’s an absent sort of motion, something she’d deem affectionate in any other circumstance, and even in this one, it’s enough to raise a wave of goosebumps over her skin.

It also brings tears to her eyes—tears that she determinedly blinks back. Over the last six months, she has, to her shame, imagined no end of scenarios between herself and Ward. She’s dreamt of him—fantasized, even—on a regular basis since the day he saved her life.

Only an hour ago, this sort of contact would have made her _year_. Now it’s the last thing she wants…which makes the heat burning in her cheeks that much worse.

The only mercy is that Ward isn’t paying her any mind at all.

“If we give them each another shot with the ICER before Koenig gets here,” he says, “then hit Koenig once they’re in the Cage…”

“Even once they regain consciousness, they’ll have to fix the fuel line before they can follow,” Coulson picks up the train of thought. “By the time they’re in a position to give chase, we’ll be long gone.”

The cut on her hand is shallow, and would require nothing more than a plaster if not for the size and angle of it. As it is, lacking any plasters that will fit, she’s forced to wind her hand with gauze, instead. A square of it would do just as well, of course, but it’s too difficult to tape it securely one-handed—and she’s not about to ask for help.

“With that kinda lead, we can leave the Cage door open,” Ward says. He hasn’t stopped touching her; she bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, disgusted by the part of her that’s actually _enjoying_ the slow glide of his fingers through her hair. “No need to send someone to let them out.”

Jemma doesn’t hear Coulson’s reply to that over the sudden racing of her mind. She doesn’t know why it didn’t hit her before—they’re leaving the others alive. They’re _leaving the others_.

Wherever they’re going to take her, they’re only taking _her_.

Which means there will be no hostages against her good behavior…and _that_ means she won’t need to behave.

And while she doesn’t know _precisely_ what they want from her, she feels safe in assuming it’s something to do with her scientific knowledge—so wherever they’re going, there will likely be a lab.

A tiny pair of scissors won’t do her any good. A lab, on the other hand…

She can do a _lot_ of damage with a lab.

“Sounds like a plan,” Coulson says, and, realizing the conversation is wrapping up, she hurries to finish securing the gauze around her hand. “I’ll go find Koenig.”

“We’ll be here,” Ward says, smiling smugly down at Jemma. His hand finally falls away from her hair, fingers blazing a trail of heat along the line of her neck on the way, but resolve sharpens her desire into disgust.

She won’t act now. She’ll play along, tend his wounds—even the one she herself inflicted—without protest, because though Coulson is gone, Jemma and Ward are not alone. Fitz, Skye, May, and Trip are still in the lab, unconscious and helpless against any retaliation Ward might be moved to visit upon them.

Once Jemma, Ward, and Coulson leave, the team will be safe.

And _then_ Jemma will be free to bring her own retaliation to bear.


End file.
